


between a death and a dahlia

by momothesweet



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Feels, Parenthood, Post-Fall of Overwatch, Reader-Insert, Universe Alteration
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-10
Updated: 2019-04-10
Packaged: 2020-01-11 02:19:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,571
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18420816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/momothesweet/pseuds/momothesweet
Summary: Who you thought was a ghost turns up in your living room, moments after putting your daughter to sleep.





	between a death and a dahlia

**Author's Note:**

> This story has been in my drafts for OVER A YEAR
> 
> I had some time (I don't know how) for reworking and tinkering and this is the result. No smut, unfortunately, but a look into post-Overwatch Gabriel with a little less homicidal tendencies. With what I have here, you'll find that this could easily be a series...but I don't want to make any promises :/
> 
> I just hope you all enjoy some feels for now!

Things have settled down, years after the blast in Switzerland that left everyone in Overwatch and Blackwatch astray. Los Angeles is crowded and everything is overpriced, but your life is much quieter. The news still goes on about tensions between humans and omnics and the rise of terrifying assassins and terrorist groups. You know better. It’s not healthy to cling to the past. Magazines that tempt you at the grocery store don’t follow this mantra at all. Looking forward is really the only thing you’d like to do, especially with the more important priorities you have now.

“Mommy!”

You snap out of your daze and look down at your little Dahlia, wiggling her hand out of your hold to run to the fluffiest pink unicorn sitting on a shelf of other toys. The stuffed animal is nearly her size, big enough to sleep next to in case she’s feeling alone in her room. She holds it up and bounces, wide brown eyes staring into your own.

“Can we get this? Please?” 

It’s not like you can’t afford to buy it. Despite Overwatch now being hailed as a useless effort to restore peace in the world, your medical experience there landed you a stable job at a state-of-the-art facility utilizing the latest tech to treat patients. Not bad for a transfer. Still, you peek at the tag and pretend to ponder whether or not you should get the toy. Your daughter’s been very good this past couple of weeks, so you don’t see a reason why to say no, other than the fact that she’s got so many other stuffed friends in her room. A growing collection is a good collection, in your opinion.

You smile and poke the unicorn’s nose. “Sure. Put her in the cart.”

“It’s a he!” she exclaims. “I’m gonna name him Clifford.”

You chuckle. “My apologies. Let’s put Clifford in the card and we can get all of this checked out.”

Once your daughter does as she’s told and you impulsively pick up the latest issue containing a feature on Hana Song’s newest MEKA, you’re both off to the checkout lines and putting items in tote bags. Dahlia does her best to help without dropping all the apples and onions rolling away, but you appreciate her efforts. She takes after you in that respect—always trying to help and to do what she can to help the cause. Even if the cause is to get these groceries in bags quickly enough so the people behind them don’t get fussy. 

At home, you lounge on the couch reading while Dahlia sits in front of you playing with her new friend. Hana’s doing incredibly well for herself, given the new MEKA features more specific to the omnics that are continuously attempting to threaten her country. The writer of the article brings up Overwatch, unsurprisingly, bringing up the fall over six years ago. They ask Hana about the rumors that circulate the organization and if she ever had any bad collaborations when there were more conflicts beyond the omnics in South Korea. Naturally, she denies the latter. Regarding rumors, however, she brings up Reaper.

A chill runs down your spine.

Time and again, the media brings up the mysterious yet terrifying individual, killing off people like picking petals off a flower. You’ve read the stories about how he travels and who he’s killing. Many of the people on his “death list” were your former colleagues and trainees from Overwatch. Other names don’t ring a bell. Your stomach turns uncomfortably and you flip the magazine closed, setting it off to the side while you focus on Dahlia instead of the paranoia and theories that cloud your head. Surely, you can take on some masked stranger seeking vengeance. If you spent some time training at the shooting range again like you used to. Like how you went after hours to practice while no one’s watching. Like how an old flame would teach you with all the sass and guidance.

“Mommy?” Dahlia stands up and pads over to the couch to climb on top of you, Clifford in tow. “You look sad again.”

You only want to frown more, but you force a smile and shake your head. “There’s nothing wrong, dear. I was just reading and then I realized it was a bad story.”

“There’s no ‘happily ever after?’”

“None at all.” You sit up and rearrange Clifford so that it faces Dahlia. “I like stories with happily ever afters. That makes me happy.”

“You make me happy, mommy.”

Your chest bubbles and you smile much more genuinely. “You make me happy too, sweetheart.”

Saturdays are your favorite days of the week. Instead of managing healing pods and reading hundreds of pages on its systems to restore people, you spend all the time you can with Dahlia. Dinner that night is a filling one and the movie of the night is full of songs Dahlia can sing to by heart. It’s definitely not the days of traveling the world and saving countless lives. Though, you wouldn’t ever want to go back to that life when you’re taking care of another you care about so much more. 

When bedtime rolls around and you get Dahlia all tucked into bed, you make your way to your own bedroom next door. A bath and a much more pleasing book would be nice. Both things will take the edge off of the bittersweet memories invading your head and the thought of some killer out for former Overwatch blood. You prefer to fall asleep without crying or thinking way too much about all that stuff.

Just before you turn on the faucet of your tub, you sense something...different about the atmosphere. The house is too quiet, too still for it to be this eerie on an early evening. Then you hear the faint sound of something (or someone) bumping into Dahlia’s toy chest downstairs. 

Your training from so long ago kicks in like a switch and you head right for your bedside drawer to unlock the case that holds your light gun. Getting it in your hands for the first time in nearly six years is a feeling so unfamiliar, it’s startling. The priority before you, though, lies in whatever might have made its way into your home.

Crouching near the stairs, you listen for more movements. At the edge, you determine that the coast is clear and you practically fly down the stairs on your toes with your gun pointed in front of you. Pivoting immediately to the living room, you see the shadowy invader and release the safety.

Then your stomach drops.

Reaper, surprisingly, doesn’t look as intimidating as the news makes him out to be. First of all, he’d be much more heart-stopping if he was standing and had both of his shotguns pointed at you. Instead, they lean on the side of the armchair, where he’s sitting. Secondly, one hand clutches his waist over what you can only presume is a gunshot wound. Black mist trickles out between his fingers. His guard is unusually at a minimum. You swallow with uncertainty and look back up at him, trying not to focus on the heavy breathing beneath his mask.

“I have no idea what you want, but you need to leave  _ right _ now,” you say without trying to sound so shaky. It’s been a while and other people were always better at this than you. You glance back at his wound. “Or I can finish whoever started this.”

His laugh is weak. You’re sure he would sound much more sinister if he weren’t injured, but you’re not going to take those chances to see it. Years of training isn’t about to go to waste on some ruthless killer. You’re sure you’ve faced worse. He’s got a mask on, for Pete’s sake.  _ And _ he doesn’t have his weapons drawn. This isn’t really Reaper, is he?

Ready to pull the trigger, you freeze when he speaks, “You would have done it already if you meant that. You lost your touch.”

He says your name and your mouth goes dry. Those stories start to grow more valid in your head. If he’s really coming after former agents, you’re not ready to let your guard down at all, even though he looks so vulnerable now. You’re not about to let your daughter grow up alone. She’s already lost one parent. That all said, you still hold back, like your fingers are paralyzed and you can’t make the shot. You give your brain a mental kick and answer, “I can say the same about you.”

There’s a growl instead of an answer. He stands with a grunt and steps forward, boots heavy on the carpeted hardwood. Then, a question out of nowhere, “Did you love him?”

Your eyes widen. “What?”

He snarls and moves close enough that you can feel his breath sear your skin. He asks the question again, emphasizing every word,  _ “ _ You know exactly who I’m talking about.  _ Did you love him?” _

Rage and frustration boil over in your belly. Reaper knows about Gabriel and you figure he’s smart enough to know about Dahlia.

Speaking of whom.

From the top of the stairs, you hear a faint call. “Mommy?”

You and Reaper both look up. Dahlia stands in the dead middle of the step, hugging Clifford tightly to her chest like a shield. Neither of you moves for a silent second. The presence of a small child automatically puts you in defensive mode and him in...awe? You hide your weapon behind your back as Reaper stares up at her. “Hi, sweetheart. Aren’t you supposed to be in bed?”

Dahlia doesn’t answer, only comes down carefully to point to Reaper’s wound from the middle of the stairs. “You’re hurt.”

He says nothing. Your mind is trying to search for the right thing to do; your daughter is awake and talking to a man who will be ready in any second to kill both of you in an instant. Think, you order yourself. What would you do if you were still in Overwatch? Diffuse the tension, keep civilians out of harm’s way—

“The pods!” Dahlia steps down the rest of the way to run towards you and take your free hand. “You can use the pods to help!”

You stammer and alternate your gaze between her and Reaper, ready to explode and simply drown in the depths of your uncertainty. Thankfully (or not?), Reaper is the first to make his move, lifting his hand away to release more wisps of black mist in your direction. There’s a hole in his blood-stained shirt, but looking at the skin, there’s no trace of any wound at all. It answers and brings up more questions at the same time. 

Dahlia’s eyes widen and she leans forward to get a closer look. Not wanting to let go of your gun, you take a hold of her hand and keep her a small distance away from Reaper. “Whoa!! That’s cool! How did you do that?!”

Reaper grunts, bringing his hand back down on his side and covering the wound with his cloak. The silence makes this all the more bizarre, so you butt in, “She asked you a question. It’s polite to answer.”

A part of you wonders if Reaper will actually do something that isn’t murder or threaten (why are you even thinking this?). That dissipates when he answers with one, gruff word: “Magic.”

“Ooh,” Dahlia croons, then sours, “Mommy said magic isn’t real!”

Reaper directs his attention at you like you’re in the wrong for explaining the art of illusion and sleight of hand to your five-year-old daughter. You scowl at him and say, “She’s right. It’s fictional.”

“Factional!”

“Fictional, sweetie.”

More apparent frustration seems to jostle Reaper. Your thoughts quickly come together: the odd mist, the quick healing, the victims. He isn’t even armed at this moment and you wonder why. Reaper’s supposed to be a “cold-blooded killer” according to the media, and yet here he is, putting up a front for the sake of a child. Does that even matter at all? Is the media hyping up a figure you could easily take down once you put your daughter back to bed?  _ If  _ you can get your daughter back to bed?

“It’s getting late,” Reaper says to break the silence. Kneeling to Dahlia’s level, he continues, “you should go back to bed.”

Until now, nothing has fazed you. You’ve put up with enough criminals and hotshot soldiers to be almost completely immune to bullshit. Almost.

Reaper attempting to parent your daughter crosses a maternal line that sets you off. Without trying to shake the situation just yet, you let go of Dahlia’s hand and motion her to the stairs again. “He’s right. You need some sleep.”

Dahlia pouts. “Story?”

You shake your head. “I’m sorry. I don’t think I can with--”

“Later,” Reaper interrupts and you clench your fist so tightly you could bleed. “Get upstairs to your bed and your mother will be there.”

A moment of confusion later, you agree with Reaper’s statement and nudge her off to her bedroom. Once she hears the door squeak almost shut, you turn back to Reaper, eyes aflame and your gun pointing right at his chest. As loudly as you can without trying to catch Dahlia’s attention, you ask, “Just what the  _ fuck _ do you think you’re doing?”

He says your name again, and this time, he holds up his hands to surrender. You don’t let up. “Do it. I’ll just come back soon enough. This is my curse.”

“What are you talking about?”

Reaper takes a step back from your gun, then slowly moves his hands to his mask. It feels as though the world stops turning when he removes it, revealing a face you thought was gone since the fall of Overwatch. Except, now, it’s been struck with more tragedy than you imagined. Part of his face is scarred so badly it’s a miracle that he’s still breathing. The other part is aged, like he’s been fighting a full-blown war by himself nonstop for the last six years. There’s no question that this is the work of that damned geneticist you knew was bad news. He was always a stubborn one, and Blackwatch was desperate for a medic. Too bad Jack kept you on his end over the other back then. You should have fought harder, and it hurts now knowing what the result turned out to be.

You can barely say his name when you drop your gun. “Ga--” your eyes well up with tears as you try to keep your guard up while unarmed, “Gabriel?”

“I didn’t want you to see me like this,” he says. Without the mask, he sounds frail, barely there. His vocal cords must be fried, along with god only knows how much of his body. “I didn’t want  _ her _ to see me like this.”

“I--” your words can barely come out of your own mouth. Six years ago, you mourned for the man you loved, the father who you thought would never get to meet his daughter. Now, he stands before you, with a dirty trail, vulnerable. “We all thought you were dead.”

There’s not much he can say to defend himself. You know he has his reasons. Though, they’re not very good judging by what’s been reported throughout the years. All that time in Overwatch has left you jaded about death. As unfortunate as it was to see one of your patients pass or killed in an unsavory matter, it was a part of the job and you had to toughen up. The same went for those close to you--that included Gabriel.

“Can I tell you my side of the story?” he asks when you say nothing more. “You were always a good listener.”

There’s not much else you can do tonight. And Gabriel is right, for the most part. You’re a  _ great  _ listener. You’ve spent endless nights with him in his suite at headquarters, listening to him rant about the limitations of his position while you sip your favorite late-night beverage. You suppose you can keep it together for another night to hear exactly where the hell he’s been. Nodding, you find your voice and ask, “Coffee?”

 

Gabriel has never spoken so quietly. In the glory days of Overwatch, he was a leader, and a firm one at that. He worked so hard, a break was more foreign than any place he traveled to around the world. While you were in Overwatch and he ran his own covert division, he was able to at least carve out some time for the two of you, even if it was just dinner or a night alone together. It was the only time you’ve ever seen him relaxed. Sort of. And then everything went wrong.

Bitterness flows through him when he speaks of betrayal and corruption. The newly-recruited soldiers as pawns of Talon. The companies collecting hush money in order to create a more divided world. Jack’s apprehension to pursue any of those leads at all. You knew Gabriel’s been wanting to get someone on the inside to infiltrate all those plans. Jack firmly denied those requests. Too dangerous. Too risky. Too “dirty” for Overwatch’s name if it ever got out.

“But you aren’t going to kill him, right?” you ask upon finding out that Jack is still alive, as well. “He’s been on your side for so long. He was only trying to do his job and save Overwatch.”

He sneers, clutching the cup in his hands so tightly you can already feel the cracks beginning to form on the ceramic. “I was only trying to do mine, and look where that got me.”

You sigh. High command was always a place for drama. Everything seemed fine until the Venice incident. You’ve never seen something descend into chaos so quickly. While you tried your best to take his mind off of it, did your best to see all sides of the story, those moments always kept coming back like an immortal parasite. There’s no single person to blame in the entire situation. Everyone had a role that lead to the ultimate destruction of an organization that was once so trusted.

“I can’t believe I’m saying this, but killing your way through your ‘list’ isn’t going to solve anything. Do you really plan on destroying Talon from the inside like this? Alone?”

“Who else is going to do it? You?”

“Gabriel, I--” you stop yourself and squeeze your coffee cup, too, “ _ we _ have a daughter, and I’ve been the only one taking care of her for the last six years while you went off to seek revenge.”

A long silence falls. Of course guilt-tripping would work. As ruthless as he is, Gabriel has always had a soft spot for kids. And you. Nothing’s changed.

“You named her Dahlia,” he says, even quieter, “after those flowers we saw in Dorado.”

Your chest tightens as you remember that day so clearly. It was a joint mission between the Overwatch and Blackwatch strike teams. Everyone worked to the bone to hunt down one of the most notorious drug lords in the country. You remember treating so many young women who were forced to work for him against their will. You remember the many thanks and the blessings. You remember an abuela showering you with dahlias of all colors. You remember Gabriel kissing you while dancing under the moonlight the night before you all had to return to the states. No other successful operation felt so rewarding.

And yet, everything hurts when you think about how Gabriel missed every single moment of Dahlia’s life.

“Her favorite color is pink,” you say, voice breaking. “She likes to sing all the songs in those kids’ movies. Her first word was ‘mama’ and she said it when she wanted more milk. Gabe, you should have seen her walk--”

“Stop it.”

His words don’t shake you at all, because you know you’re both crying. Politics aside, Overwatch aside, you thought  _ Dahlia’s father _ had been dead the whole time. You raised Dahlia on your own, endured sleepless nights and hopeless days. You had no idea how to be a mom; your own mother could only help you for so long. All of the hardships and woes, you carried them all on your back. Parenthood is absolutely nothing compared to what you did in Overwatch. In fact, parenthood is a thousand times more difficult and taxing. And Gabriel was there for none of it. 

“Can you ever forgive me?”

It takes another long time before you can answer. When you finally look up and wipe your tears to face this new Gabriel, you reach forward for his hand, covered in a ridiculous glove made to look like talons. You still have a soft spot for him, too.

“Someday. Not tonight.”

He folds his fingers around yours. “I’ll take it.”

 

You do your best to catch him up. In true maternal fashion, you saved every memory since birth. Everything from pregnancy photos to the photos you took today, you show him. Gabriel looks on, asks his questions, watches all the videos and cries all over again. It doesn’t matter if it’s tears of guilt or tears of joy. What matters most is that Gabriel can still  _ feel _ . That’s all you can really ask of him in this state.

“She asks about you sometimes,” you say when you swipe through photos of Dahlia’s fourth birthday on your tablet. 

He looks on, taking your hand once again so he can admire Dahlia’s pink dress and matching tiara. “What do you tell her?”

“I tell her the truth,” you say, “or...what I thought was the truth. That you’ve been dead. And then I change the subject.”

Gabriel doesn’t say anything. You know he’d say the same about you if your roles were reversed. What you want to say to her now...you’re not so sure. He’s unable to fill in the gap of conversation when he looks at another picture, one where she’s fast asleep in your arms. It’s one of your favorites. Lots of these are your favorites.

“I took her to the zoo that day,” you tell him as he looks on. “She really wanted to pet the lions.”

“Did you let her?”

“Gabe,” you say, stifling a laugh. 

You can feel him do the same. He goes quiet again as he brushes his fingers over the tablet screen. He’s taken his gloves off and you can see how his skin emanates that ominous mist that’s consumed him. 

“Gabe.” You set the tablet aside and take his hand, cold and jagged, “What happened before you got here? You were shot.”

He looks away when he speaks. “Arms dealer at a warehouse in Glendale. Had some information on Jack’s current location. I was ambushed.”

“Nobody followed you, right?”

“I made sure of it.”

You sigh deeply, leaning forward so your forehead brushes against his. As different as Gabriel has become, the warmth you’ve always felt for him remains. It never really left you. 

“My answer is ‘yes,’ by the way.”

“Hm?”

“Your question earlier,” you clarify, looking into his eyes as your heart beats faster. “I loved you so much. I...I still do. Even if you did drop off the face of the earth and leave me behind to take care of our daughter.”

More silence. The aforementioned mist slips from his cloak. Age and stress haven’t changed his body very much. SEP and Moira’s doing must have contributed to that. With all his artillery off to the side, placed next to Dahlia’s toy chest, you’re able to embrace him. Much of his body is unusually cool, truly as if he’s constantly jumping between life and death. You can’t imagine just how much pain he feels. At least it doesn’t prevent him from holding you, too. 

It’ll take time for you to come to terms with all that’s happened tonight. There’s a lot you need to explain to Dahlia since you’re sure there’ll be more news about some masked man causing trouble in southern California. And if he and Jack are still alive, who else is out there still fighting?  _ If _ they’re still fighting? One night isn’t enough to get all the details out of Gabriel. Unfortunately, one night is all you can get.

“I can’t stay here,” he says. “I have to keep moving.”

“I know. We can’t have Dahlia in this mess.”

He holds you tighter. “Can I say goodbye to her?”

“Of course.”

It takes some time for him to get his gear back on, sans mask. You don’t comment on his outfit again. By the time the two of you reach her room upstairs, Dahlia is fast asleep in her bed, clinging to her stuffed toy while the rest of her bed is covered with some more furry friends. Gabriel looks fondly at her and the rest of her room; you observe from the doorway, allowing him some space to take in everything he’s missed until now. You watch him brush the hair away from her face. Dahlia stirs ever so slightly, but stays asleep when he murmurs whatever words for sweet dreams. When he lingers longer than you expect, you step forward and listen in on what exactly he’s telling her.

“And that’s how I fell in love with your mother.”

Your chest tightens when he blends in with the darkness of Dahlia’s room. Despite his condition, despite his absence, despite his plans to try and finish what he started in Blackwatch, you love him. It simultaneously hurts and heals all the loneliness you’ve been feeling. All these years dedicated to a quiet life with your daughter, and suddenly he awakens all those little moments that were stored away in the back of your head. The story he tells Dahlia is a good one, a good memory of you, of all people, saving his ass by sucker-punching a Talon operative before they could shoot him down. It’s sweet. 

When he finishes his farewell to Dahlia, Gabriel stands, meeting you eye to eye as he mouths those three little words you never thought you’d hear again. Your tears flow freely once again.

“I love you too,” you say, smiling as you reach up and peck his lips. He’s cold and tingly and something stirs in your brain about doing research to possibly reverse the damage done to him. For now, you have to say goodbye. “Come back when you’re not on the run.”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

You reach out to him, hands on his cheeks that continue to seep mist. “Please, Gabriel.”

He gives in and kisses you back. “Okay. I promise.”

It’s not good practice in either of your lines of work to make promises when there’s really no guarantee. Then again, Blackwatch always broke its rules, and you weren’t always the perfect medic like your fellow colleagues. Gabriel steps away when you let go at last, and puts his mask back on. After one more look at Dahlia, he dematerializes before you, whisking his way around your neck and brushing right over Dahlia’s hair before slipping through the crack of her window, into the warm, late night.

Your story hasn’t ended just yet with Gabriel. In fact, it’s picking right back up.

**Author's Note:**

> dad Gabriel is a good Gabriel
> 
>  
> 
> Thank you for reading! Comments, kudos, feedback and a unicorn named Clifford are greatly appreciated!
> 
> [Tumblr](http://peachofwork.tumblr.com)


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